10. Evie
EVIE
It’s time to start my afternoon shift, but there’s a beautiful woman in my way, standing on Murphy’s doorstep. Ophelia, I guess, based on Briggs’s deranged text.
From a distance, I can still read the pinched look on Murphy’s face.
“Thanks for the food, Miss Andrews,” he says. “But you ought to get on home now.”
I hesitate at the bottom of the ramp. She’s tall—taller than me—with strawberry blonde hair that can’t decide if it’s pink or gold, and a face that belongs on the side of a bus.
I vaguely recognize her from Ziggy’s funeral. She was lingering near the gravesite long after everyone left. Well, everyone but Briggs and me, that is.
“Evie!” Murphy calls, and I realize I’ve been standing there gawking for who knows how long.
“Yeah, sorry.” I jog up the ramp and thrust a hand out. “I’m Evie Sutton. Friend of the family.”
Ophelia raises one perfectly manicured brow. “The family?”
“The Maxwells.”
“Right.” She gives me a saccharine smile. “Zigmund, then? Or Briggs?”
It’s a strange thing to ask. There are only two ways to know these people, apparently, and one of them is dead.
“Murphy, first and foremost.” I smile over at him, warm, and mean it. A casserole dish sits on the seat of his four-wheeled walker, a pie tin balanced on top. “Did you bring some food?”
“I did.” She turns her attention away from me. “I remember you enjoyed the bourbon pecan pie I made when Briggs got his call-up.”
Murphy chuckles. “Can’t say I remember it all too well. Went a little heavy on the rum that night.”
Ophelia’s shoulders drop slightly, but she recovers before glancing back at me. “Well. I just wanted to come by and offer my condolences again. To the family.” She addresses Murphy, softer now. “And if you could pass that on to your son, I’d be awfully grateful.”
He frowns. “Which son?”
“Oh, uh—”
He laughs, dry and a little cruel. “Kidding, Miss Andrews. Thanks for stoppin’ by.”
Murphy dismisses her with a wave, and I track her retreat toward a polished black sedan.
I’m still entirely in the dark about her identity.
An ex-girlfriend, maybe. Regardless of her business here, I’m grateful Murphy took the lead on that interaction so I wasn’t forced to play enforcer for Briggs’s blacklist.
Once we’ve retreated inside—the casserole dish safely warming in the oven—I trail Murphy into the front room.
He’s managed to graduate to the walker today, leaving the chair behind.
The PT gave him the green light for short distances a few days back, and it’s been a slow, stubborn process of trial and error ever since.
It’s a quiet triumph to witness his progress. I can see the flicker of genuine pride in his expression, even if he tries to bury it under a layer of unearned cynicism.
“So,” I say, “are you going to fill me in on the drama?”
He taps a finger against his jaw. “That’s a story you’re going to have to get from Briggs, I’m afraid.”
My first instinct is to push. But I’m well aware there’s a delicate line between being a paid employee and a person you trust with your secrets, and I’m not entirely sure I’ve earned the right to step over it.
“Well, he already issued a formal warning against the lasagna we’re currently heating up, so . . .”
“You’re actually going to take orders from that boy?”
“He’s growing on me lately. Plus, he has a temper.” I pick at a loose thread on the sofa arm. “I’m not in the mood to aggravate it.”
“Eh, he wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Murphy grumbles.
I give him a skeptical look. “Have you seen him on the ice?”
Because I have. Three games now, watched from this exact spot, and every time he steps onto the rink, he sheds his skin. He plays left wing—Murphy explained the mechanics that first night, using a napkin to map out the zones.
He’s a blur down the boards, first to the puck, and seemingly indifferent to the physics of throwing his body at men twice his size. You don’t have to know the rules to recognize the sheer force he carries out there.
“Off the ice, he’s a total marshmallow,” Murphy says. “Or he was, anyway.”
I have a hard time reconciling that image with the man I’ve met. He carries himself with a jagged, callous edge. Though I do wonder if the change is a recent byproduct of losing his brother, something tells me the walls have been there for years.
“Whatever you say.”
I head for the kitchen, plating up two massive squares of lasagna. When I return, Murphy has successfully navigated himself into the armchair.
We sit in the glow of some mindless game show and dig in. I’ve stopped the performative routine of jumping straight into work the moment I clear the threshold. Most afternoons now, I just follow his lead. He prefers the company of a person over the management of a patient.
I still keep one eye on the clock and the other on the pill organizer, of course. It’s not all social hour.
The first bite is enough to understand why Briggs was so defensive. It’s magnificent. Ophelia might be a persona non grata in this house, but she’s an artist in the kitchen. There’s a hit of fresh herbs in the sauce, and the cheese is layered perfectly.
“This is annoyingly good,” I tell Murphy.
“She always could cook,” he admits grudgingly, forking up another mouthful. “I’ll give her that much and nothing else.”
Once we finish, I get him situated for the exercises. There’s a resistance band for his forearm and a sequence of small, clinical movements he’s required to do twice a day.
I take the seat opposite him and handle the counting so he doesn’t have to.
“You know my mom was an occupational therapist?” I say, nodding toward the band. “I never got the chance to know her, for obvious reasons. But my dad says she was exceptional at this part of the gig. She was mobile, so she did home visits.”
Murphy pulls against the band, his gaze fixed on his hands. “Is that right?”
“Yep. Covered most of Clark County.”
Murphy is quiet for a beat, working through a rep. “My wife taught music before she passed. Taught piano right out of the house.”
I look up. “That sounds lovely.”
“Kept that piano for years after. Neither boy ever showed an interest in learning.” He lets the band go slack. “Ziggy used to bang on the keys as a toddler. Drove me up the damn wall at the time. Now I’d give just about anything to hear that noise again.”
Something in my chest pulls tight. I think about my dad’s version of this—the photo on the mantle, the repetitive stories he tells me. It’s heavy—grieving for a real person while also grieving for the parts of them you were too small to hold on to.
“I can only imagine.”
“Briggs was four when Ziggy came along. He remembers more about his mother than he’ll ever cop to.
” He stops, the band abandoned in his lap.
“Talked about her all the time as a kid. Her singing, the perfume she liked. Then somewhere along the way, he just . . . stopped. Decided it was simpler to pretend he never knew her at all.”
I don’t offer a platitude. I just keep counting and let him reach the end of the thought on his own.
“He does that,” Murphy adds. “Decides a thing is easier discarded than kept. He’s been practicing that his entire life.” He drops the band and looks out the window. “You’d think losing his brother might teach a man otherwise. We’ll see.”
We finish the set in a quieter register, the conversation drifting into a space neither of us is ready to push. By the time I pack up to leave, the sun has dropped behind the fourplexes, and Murphy is nodding off in the chair.
When I’m back in the Corolla, I shoot a text off to Briggs.
Evie
I was planning to take this to my grave but I need to confess my sins. I ate the lasagna and it was magnificent. there was pie, too. that was even better
Briggs
fucking hell. if you tell me it was bourbon pecan I’m blocking this number
Evie
. . .
Briggs
you’re dead to me
Evie
*vampire emoji*
Briggs
*angry emoji*
The following morning at Sutton & Sons, we’re faced with a significant logistical problem, and that problem is a horse.
Not a real one, thankfully. It’s a life-sized cardboard cutout of a palomino currently wedged in the doorway of the arrangement room. Phil ordered it for a themed service and, in his usual fashion, neglected to measure the frame.
“It’s for the Delgados,” he says, as if that justifies the obstruction. “She was a barrel racer. State champion, three years running. The daughter requested it near the guest book.”
“It isn’t going to fit near the guest book,” Tomás says. “It isn’t even going to fit through the damned door.”
“It’ll fit. We just need the right angle.”
We spend six minutes negotiating the angle. Tomás takes the lead, I take the tail, and Phil offers a series of unhelpful directions. The horse loses an ear against the jamb.
Phil gasps. “You’ve maimed Diamond.”
“It has a name?” I ask.
Tomás sets his end down with a thud. “The real horse was named Comanche. I read the file. You’ve been calling this thing Diamond for no discernible reason.”
Phil considers this. “Oh. I could’ve sworn I saw Diamond in the notes.”
Gerald emerges from the back, moving at a pace that suggests he’s walking through heavy syrup. He surveys the palomino. He surveys us. He says absolutely nothing and continues toward the kitchen.
“Very helpful, Gerald!” Phil shouts.
We eventually force the horse through. It stands in the arrangement room looking somewhat worse for wear, but I have to admit it’s not the most unhinged thing Phil has talked a family into.
Last month featured a fog machine. The month before that was a live butterfly release, half of which didn’t survive the industrial HVAC.
“The Delgados are going to love it,” Phil says, already supergluing the ear.
“They will,” I agree.
Grief makes people reach for highly specific comforts, and sometimes the weird things are the only ones that help.
While Phil takes photos for the social media feed, Tomás and I reset the room for the afternoon viewing, working in a familiar, easy quiet. He’s the one who breaks it.
“You heard Bianca’s leaving the shop?”
I look up. “Your best artist?”
He huffs. “Bianca’s a close second. But she’s moving to Reno—husband’s transfer.” He flips over a delivery tag. “I’m going to need someone for her chair.”
“Have you thought about putting a notice in the foyer?”
“I thought about asking you to apprentice for me.” He drops the tag. “But I already know the response.”
I stop labeling. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you work mornings here and afternoons at the Maxwell place, and you’ll never quit either of them.”
“One’s a temporary gig that pays an absurd amount of money. The other is the family trade.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “You used to draw. You’d sit in the break room on your lunch and fill a sketchbook. You don’t do that anymore. You just eat at your desk and stare at the wall.”
My nose wrinkles. “Is there a problem with that?”
“Just a professional observation.”
I did use to draw more. I’d fill the margins between services—faces, mostly.
The families in the waiting room when they thought nobody was looking.
There was a widower who came in every day for a week to change the flowers on his wife’s display.
I drew him enough times that I could do his hands from memory.
Somewhere in my apartment, there’s a portfolio I haven’t opened in years, and every month, the student loan payment clears to remind me exactly what it cost to fill it.
The Maxwell money is supposed to fix that. Three thousand a week, chipping away at the balance faster than I’ve managed in two years. But I’m busier than I’ve ever been, and paying off a debt doesn’t leave much room for anything else.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him. “Maybe I have time for all three.”
“You don’t.” Tomás heads back to his side of the room.
“The Maxwell gig only lasts until spring!” I call after him, mostly just to have the final word.
Then my phone buzzes, and my stomach does a ridiculous little flip when I see brIGGS on the screen. We’ve been texting daily, but he’s never actually called.
I step out the side door into the parking lot, smoothing my hair as if he could see me. “Hey.”
“Hey.” There’s road noise behind him, the sounds of a car. I can tell he has me on speaker. “Quick question. The pharmacy—do they deliver my dad’s script, or does someone have to go get it? I got a notification saying it’s ready and couldn’t tell if it was handled.”
“It’s handled. I pick it up on Thursdays.” I lean against the cinder block. “Why? Checking up on me?”
“Checking up on the meds.” A turn signal clicks in the background. “Okay. Good. That’s all I needed.”
“Yeah?”
“Figured I’d call since I was already driving. Hope that’s alright.” Then, warmer and quicker, “Thanks, Evie. Talk later.”
The connection cuts.
I stand in the lot holding the phone for thirty seconds. The call was about his father’s medication. A perfectly rational thing to want to know. Which leaves no reasonable explanation for the flat, sinking sensation currently settling behind my ribs.
I genuinely don’t know what else I was expecting.